


Still Life, With Birthday

by dyna (anodyna)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: AU, Bloodplay, Humor, M/M, Slash, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anodyna/pseuds/dyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike loves to celebrate his birthday.  Angel doesn't get it, but plans a night out for them anyway.  Cashmere is worn; chaos ensues.  Written for a birthday fic challenge at the late, awesome Eternal Nightcap, circa 2002.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Life, With Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> The challenge that inspired this fic involved a laundry list of required elements, the details of which are now lost to the mists of the internet, but included (iirc) cheezels, a Wolverine action figure, Giles in a sombrero, white chocolate massage cream, and Britney Spears being burned in effigy. The Bulgarian cab driver may also have been part of it, who can say?
> 
> This story draws heavily on the comedic stylings and general AU setup of Eternal Nightcap and the similarly immortal [Days of Our Unlives](http://www.ficbitch.com/daysofourunlives/).

In general, vampires don't celebrate birthdays.

For one thing, few vampires look back on their human lives with fondness. And why should they?  Getting turned isn't an equal-opportunity fate; it's something that happens to the unprotected, the alone, the vulnerable.  Society's castoffs, transformed into an army of bitter undead.  To celebrate the beginning of a life the owner was only too glad to lose seems perverse, even by demon standards.

Then there are vampires like the Master, who live so far removed from the world that they've lost all concept of time.  Suffice it to say, they don't own calendars.  They don't really celebrate anything, unless it's one-time occasions like the day they wake up to find they've outgrown the curse of human features.

The less said on that subject, the better.

Among younger, more worldly vampires, the most commonly celebrated occasion is the Death Day--the anniversary of the day you were turned.  This one I have mixed feelings about.  On one hand, there's eternal damnation, and the guilt I feel over all the things I did before I was souled.  On the other, there's enough that's good in my unlife--moments of joy, or at least contentment--that I can't quite bring myself to regret that I'm still here.  So if Spike wants to throw me a Death Day party, I'm okay with it.  And if that means for one night I appear to celebrate what I spend the rest of the year trying to atone for--well, I just try not to let the contradiction give me a headache.

But even if none of the above were true, birthdays would still be a non-issue for most of us because, let's face it, there are very few things in life that can maintain their interest in the face of immortality.  You know--do something ten times, it's still fun.  Repeat 150 more times, you might as well not even bother.

Of course, there are exceptions to this rule.  Most of mine involve Spike, and a certain amount of alcohol.

Speaking of...Spike is the reason I'm on the subject of birthdays to begin with.  Because today is his birthday, and because, unlike most of us, he does consider this to be an occasion for celebration.  Which means, by extension, that I do, too.

What celebrating his birthday signifies to Spike is debatable.  It's not like he thinks a lot about his human life.  I'm certain he's never pondered the meaning of a birthday for an undead creature.

What am I saying?  It's not debatable.  As far as Spike is concerned, the only real requirement for observing an occasion is that there are presents involved, preferably for him.  In addition to birthdays, he's big on Death Days, Valentine's Day, Christmas, and an ever-expanding list of anniversaries, half of which I'm pretty sure are invented.  Second anniversary of the first time we shagged on the roof, anyone?

Tonight is actually Phase Two of Spike's birthday celebration.  Phase One was yesterday evening, when he disappeared off to the mall, returning home late and overloaded with bags full of, I assume, birthday gifts from me.  Tonight is my attempt to show him a good time that I'm actually present for, beginning with dinner at a restaurant I know he likes.

We have reservations for eight o' clock.  It is now five minutes to seven. One of us is ready to go.  The other is in the living room with the TV on, busily arranging his enormous new collection of action figures into a kind of plastic orgy on our coffee table.

Fifteen minutes.  That's how much time he has to get dressed.

"Hey, Wanker!  Bring me another beer, will you?"

This could get ugly.

"Angel, did you hear me?  Answer me, ya bastard!  I know you're there--I can hear you brooding!"

That's it.  I'm going in.

***

Angel walks in giving me his best put-upon Sire expression.  The one that combines the sulky pout of martyrdom with the beady glare of "why in the hell did I turn you?"  You wouldn't think those two would go together, but he makes it work.  He's talented that way.

Anyway, there's no beer in his hands so I'm guessing this is my wakeup call. Which is fine--I'm almost done with my work here.  Still, there's no point in giving in too easily.  I smile up at him and ask him the question that's been bugging me for the last two minutes:

"Peaches, if Wolverine and Lara Croft were gonna shag, what position, d'you think?"

Angel stares at me like I just asked him what position he and Slutty used when he deflowered her.  As if I don't already know; how hard's that one to figure?

I shrug and give my attention back to the little plastic people in my hands. "Mishposish it is, then.  Sorry, mate," I tell Wolverine, as I bend him into place. He's really too good for that Tomb Raider bint, but the store was all out of Batman, and there's no other bloke here I'd put him with.  Especially not this wanker in the sombrero.  Is it me, or does he look exactly like Slutty's watcher? It's kinda creepy.

Finally, Angel speaks.

"Spike."

It comes out half like a sigh, and ordinarily, I'd go on ignoring him.  If he wants to talk to me about something, he can lay off the meaningful silences and get to the point.  But what the hell, it's my birthday and the whole reason for this conversation is he wants to take me out and show me a good time, so just this once I'll humor him.  "Yeah, Angel?"

"We have to leave in fifteen minutes.  Go get dressed."

Like it ever takes me more than five minutes to get dressed.  Unlike Angel, who needs at least an hour on account of all those poofter personal grooming products he uses.  Not that I blame him.  If I was as ancient as he is I'd probably do the same.  That, and live in fear of waking up one morning with bat-face.

I don't budge from where I'm sitting.  "Now?  But the Naked Chef's on in five minutes."

Huh.  Angel's really holdin' it in tonight.  Under normal circumstances I'd be flat on my back by now.  But my birthday must mean more to him than I thought, 'cause instead all I get is this:  "Spike, you know he's not actually naked on the show."

"Oh.  Well still, there's--whatever this is.  I'm watchin' it."

Angel turns to look at the TV.  It's another cooking show.  This little gray-haired Aussie bird is sprinkling chunks of something yellow into the bowl of an electric mixer.  It looks horrible, even for human food.

"Spike, that's disgusting."

"Why?  She's showing us how to make a festive party dip out of sour cream and cheezels."

"I repeat, that's disgusting.  What's a cheezel?"

It's my turn to sigh.  I have a special one reserved for these moments.  It sounds like 'Angel is an 18th-century geezer who doesn't know his arse from the moon landing.'  He pretends he doesn't hear all that, but take my word, he does.

"A cheezel's a snack food, ya brooding nonce.  And don't worry, no one's offerin' you any."

There's a certain calm that comes over Angel when he's reaching the end of his patience, and which I've learned to ignore at my own peril. Recognizable mainly by the look he's wearin' on his face right now.

And yeah, I know there are other things I could do besides just go get dressed. For instance, there's pouting; also eyelash-fluttering, also a slow stroke of the tongue across my lower lip.  In a pinch, I can do all three.  Add a long stare at Angel's crotch, and presto, nobody's leaving this room for at least the next two hours.

But still--as much as getting shagged senseless by Angel is my idea of a well-spent evening, there's not just me to consider here.  Angel wants to take me out and, well, I'm halfway interested to see what it is he's planning.  It oughta be something good, since he won't tell me a damn thing.  At least it can't be bloody _Riverdance_ again.

So I take my cue like a good Childe, much to Angel's surprise.  He looks startled when I stand up and put out my cigarette, and when I start toward the bedroom without further argument, you can practically hear him struggling to keep the smile off his face.

Ponce.  Let him smile if he wants.  I have nothing to prove.

Nothing that can't wait a couple of hours, anyway.

****

Sometimes I wonder if it was wise to sire someone with such an irritating personality.  I mean sure, after 120 years anyone would be bound to get on your nerves.  But in Spike's case, I know he does it on purpose.

Like just now.  All of that--the action figures, the TV, the cheese-things--that was all just a little game of Spike's, his way of testing how much I'm prepared to put up with tonight.

How do I know this?  Extensive experience.  It's the 120 years rule again--he learns all the ways of getting on my nerves, I learn to read his thoughts by the little clues he gives.  Like the way his eyes flutter when he lies, or the way his lips curl up at the end when he's about to reach for me in bed.  It's how I know when he's picturing me naked--which is surprisingly often--and more to the point, when he's pretending indifference that he doesn't really feel.

Which is fine--I don't have to hear him say it to know he's looking forward to tonight.  He doesn't owe me any display of enthusiasm.  If anything, I owe him one.  Something to make up for the fact that I'm 250 years old, grouchy, and unable to relate to 90% of the things he loves, including most music, all popular culture, and the majority of modern appliances.

So tonight, for his birthday, I intend to surprise him.  And not my usual kind of surprise, where the reason it's a surprise is it's something he'd never agree to otherwise.  I got him to _Riverdance_ that way, and let's just say I know he's holding a grudge.

This surprise is different.  It's a gift--something I know he'd love, but he'd never expect to get.  And if I took the advice of my employees, he still wouldn't be getting it, because, well, they get a little hung up on things like public safety. But he's not their Childe.  And it's his birthday.

I hear sounds of paper tearing in the bedroom, and Spike calls out to me: "Hey, Angel!  Mind if I wear my boots?"

Oh please, not an argument about footwear.  "Spike, you are _not_ wearing those boots!"

"Wanker!"

We need to leave in ten minutes.  If there's no traffic, we'll be sitting down to dinner by 8:15.  If by 10 we've managed to eat a nice meal without injuring anyone or setting the tablecloth on fire, I'll be giving Spike his present.

Hopefully I will not regret this later.

****

There are a few things I do for Angel.

I massage the knots out of his great hulking back when the stress of being a brooding superhero threatens to turn him into the Petrified Man.  I put up with his poofy romantic shit with a minimum of complaint.  I make him laugh, which is no mean feat; also cry, and, if I'm lucky, occasionally beg.

Nobody begs like Angel.  It's fuckin' unbelievable.  He oughta teach a course: 'Advanced Buggery Appreciation.'

Anyway, my point is, when it comes to getting along with Angel, you have to know what's important.  He complains a lot, but when you cut through all the noise, what really matters to him is pretty simple:  He wants quiet when he's trying to sleep; an apartment that's clean and not on fire; plenty of hot water when he comes home with chunks of demon in his hair; frequent shags; and, once in a while, to take me out somewhere nice without gettin' an aneurysm over what I've got on.

Needless to say, except for the shagging, Angel doesn't get any of these things on a consistent basis.  I haven't started a fire in a while, but I'm still noisy as hell, forgetful with the housework, and prone to leavin' the hot faucet running while I nip out for a pack of smokes.

Normally I'm not big on dressing up to go out either.  I figure a place that doesn't want me in my jeans and duster is a place I can do without going. And don't even get me started on the nancyboy outfits that Angel thinks I should wear instead.  I have him on notice that the next time he wants me in a tux, he's bloody gonna have to tie me up and put it on me himself.

The trouble with that attitude is, Angel doesn't give up.  Never mind his reasons; if my Sire wants my ass out of the jeans and into some foofy pair of trousers, eventually that is where my ass will be.  The only real question is how much pain and suffering am I willing to go though beforehand.  And even though ordinarily I say, bring on the pain and suffering--'cause what's the point of having free will if I just go ahead and do what Angel says all the time?--lately even _I'm_ getting tired of this particular argument.

So I've decided it's time for a new strategy.  Angel doesn't want me in jeans--fine.  Angel wants me to leave the duster at home--also fine.  It's gettin' too hot for the duster anyway.  Angel wants me to wear the suit he bought for me that's hanging in the closet right now, looking all pressed and poofy--fuck that. This birthday, I did what I shoulda done a long time ago.  Which is took Angel's credit cards to the mall and got myself an outfit that _I_ like for a change.

I can hear Angel in the living room grumbling to himself about the time. You'd think he actually needed to eat, the way he worries about being late to restaurants.  Still, I don't want him coming in here to check on me before I'm ready to unveil the new kit, so I pick up the pace.  I haul yesterday's purchases out from under the bed, tear open the bags, and step back to admire my handiwork.

Item number one:  Trousers.  Leather, comma, black.  All smooth and supple, cut close like my jeans.  They remind me of my duster, and Angel when he's in that dark evil mood of his.  Not sayin' I like the mood, but I do like the gear that goes with it.  And if leather trousers are good enough for Angel when he's bein' a rat bastard, I figure they've gotta be good enough for me just bein' my regular self.

Item number two:  T-shirt.  Black.  V-neck.  Cashmere.

Yeah, that's right, I said cashmere.  And yeah, I am aware that I've called Angel a fruity wanker about a million times over the pile of cashmere crap he has in his closet.  And no, the irony isn't lost on me.  But see--it just feels so fucking good.  I tried it on and it was like when Angel and I are in bed and he's all wrapped around my body and our skins are touching and all my nerves are standing on end, only instead of Angel it's the goddamn sweater and I'm in the fitting room about having an orgasm.  If that makes it poofy, I'll be a bloody poof, I don't care.  If they made bedsheets outta the stuff you'd never see me vertical again.

That takes care of the clothes part of the operation.  There's just one detail left to run by His Broodiness:  "Hey, Angel!  Mind if I wear my boots?"

His answer comes back so fast, I bet he was waiting for it.  "Spike, you are _not_ wearing those boots!"

"Wanker!"  We'll see about that.  I strip off my clothes and pull on the leather trousers.  Damn, but they feel good; it's like wearin' another skin.  I slip on the sweater, and no shit, it gives me a total hard on.  But I figure that'll settle down once I get used to it.  If not...oh, well.

I give my hair a quick rub to make it stand up all spikey, and I'm good to go, except I'm still barefoot.  Time to see what Angel thinks.  I walk into the living room just as he turns around and sees me.

Angel has a limited range of facial expressions, but he makes up for it by using most of them now.  In quick succession we get:  annoyance when he sees I'm not in the suit; confusion, as he takes in what I'm wearing; and then--I don't know what to call it.  The furrows in his brow smooth out, his lips part slightly, he blinks a few times, looks down, then back up at me...

Oh wait, I do know this one.  It's called, "Angel has no blood left in his head."

Also known as, I am _so_ getting laid tonight.

The plastic figure under my bare foot reminds me that I have something to ask him.

"Peaches, do you mind if I wear my boots?"

He blinks at me a couple more times.  Christ, what if he had an aneurysm after all?  When he finally answers, his voice is soft and kind of dazed.  "Sure, fine, boots.  Fine."

Ha!  Let the birthday festivities begin!

****

Spike's halfway across the lobby by the time I get to the bottom of the stairs.  I'd be moving faster, but only part of my brain seems to be working.  And I'm a little worried I may be hallucinating, because I don't really see how that could be Spike in those leather pants.

Ten feet from the door he stops to wait for me.  "C'mon, ya trotting poof! I thought we had somewhere to be."

I guess it's him.  I just...I'm not used to seeing him dressed this way. It's a little unnerving.  Also incredibly sexy.  He's standing there with his arms folded, watching me.  I realize he's measuring my reaction, and I can tell by his evil smirk that he's pleased.

When I reach him, neither of us makes a move toward the door.  Of their own accord, my hands find his hips, my fingers sliding over the unfamiliar leather.  I lower my face to his neck and breathe deeply, taking in the smell of him. It's tobacco and alcohol, leather and blood, plus something that's uniquely _him_ , that marks him for all time as mine.

"Oy, ponce!  Knock it off, eh?  I'm hungry!"  He squirms in my grip, but there's more pleasure than annoyance in his voice.

I dimly recall we were on our way out, but at the moment I don't remember where.  I love the feel of the leather under my palms, and I can feel a purr starting in my chest.  Maybe we could just skip the plans and...

"Angel!"  Someone's shouting my name, and it isn't Spike.

Crap.  Why am I always being interrupted?  With a growl of frustration I whirl around to face the intruder.  "WHAT!?"

It's Cordelia.  She's got her hand over her eyes as if to shield herself, and she's pissed.  "For crying out loud, Angel!  Can't you two get a room?  It can't be that hard, you live in a friggin' hotel!"

Spike is snickering behind me.  "I'm sorry, Cordy," I begin, sheepishly, but she stops me with an upraised hand.

"Never mind, I'm sure the part of my brain that remembers this will die eventually.  Like when I'm 90.  But it would help if you didn't keep giving it fresh material."

"Like I said, I'm sorry.  I didn't know you were here."

Cordy uncovers her eyes and gives me an exasperated look.  "Hello?  You're lucky I was here, because you were about to walk out without something _very important_.  Something you _need._   Something you're not supposed to _forget._ Am I getting through to you here?  'Cause you still look a little confused."

I feel a little confused, actually.  But no--I do know what she's talking about, and she's right, I was about to forget.  Which I would've thought was impossible, but what can I say?  That was before Spike showed up in leather pants and started interfering with my mental functions.

Cordy marches up to me, giving Spike a dirty look over my shoulder.  "Here," she says, shoving an envelope into my hand.  "Happy birthday to Spike, have a nice evening, blah-di-blah, goodbye."  With her best fake smile she yanks open the door and stands there, waiting for us to leave.

"C'mon Peaches," Spike says, and starts pulling me toward the door.

"Sorry again, Cordy."  I shove the envelope in my pocket and give her an apologetic smile.

"Don't mention it.  _Ever._ "  Still smiling sweetly, she slams the door behind us.

****

Instead of the garage, Angel heads for the street.  "Hey, wanker!" I call after him, "The car's this way!"

"Gunn's got the car tonight," he tosses back over his shoulder as he flags down a cab.  There's a screech of brakes as one pulls up.  "Come on."  He hauls open the door and shoves me in.

I settle into the seat and turn to where he oughta be, but he's not there. He's still standing in the street, holdin' the door open.  He blinks a few times, like he's trying to remember something.

"Spike," he says finally, "is that...cashmere?"

****

Okay, two things:

First, our cab driver is seriously insane.  I say this not to judge, but simply as a concerned citizen.  He's weaving in and out of traffic, gunning it through red lights, and once, taking a corner, I think we may have cut across the sidewalk. All the while he's half-hanging out the window, screaming insults in Bulgarian at other drivers.

How do I know it's Bulgarian?  Darla and I once spent a winter in Sofia. It's a funny story.  Which I won't be telling.

Why do I only _think_ we cut across the sidewalk?  Because I wasn't looking. Because Spike and I are flat on the back seat and I'm kissing him like my life depends on it.  Which is ironic, because my life probably _actually_ depends on getting the hell out of this cab.

Which brings me to thing number two:  Spike.  Spike on his back with my hands in his hair, pressed down hard on the seat with his mouth open against mine, kissing me back, laughing and insistent.  And I must be insane myself because I can't stop, not even with the cab driver right here and all of LA just outside the window.  I want to touch him so badly; but he's cashmere above, leather below, and there's nowhere I can put my hands that doesn't make me more crazed than I am already.  And the sounds of the cab driver screaming mingle with Spike's growling and the murmured endearments that leave my lips before I can stop them, and I'm beginning to forget why it is that I still have my clothes on, when suddenly there's a shriek of brakes, the cab stops dead, and Spike and I are thrown to the floor.

That snaps me out of it, a little.  I raise my head, half-expecting to see the wreckage of another car, or a dead pedestrian on the hood.

Instead, I see a valet.  A pimply teenage kid peering through the passenger-side window, trying to figure out if there's someone in this cab he should be opening the door for.  It's the restaurant.  How'd we get here so fast?

****

I'm fuckin' dying, I'm laughing so hard.  Partly at Angel, for the supernatural fast way he composes himself--I mean, twenty seconds ago he was on top of me, half in game face and lookin' like he might just take me right there. Now--bam!-- he's paying the lunatic cab driver and shovin' me out the door like I'm the one causing all the trouble.  Partly I'm laughing just because.  Because my body is flooded with adrenaline and heat and lust and there's no release for it except these helpless spasms of laughter.

Oh, but fuck, wasn't Angel beautiful in that cab?  He's so bloody heavy and strong, having him on top of me's like being safe and held prisoner at the same time.  Then there's those big hands tangling in my hair, holdin' my head still while he kisses me, finding my shirt and mauling and stroking me like I'm some kinda big cat and he's--I don't know, some kinda cat-loving pervert; and all the while he's talking softly about how much he wants me, and damned if this isn't the most interesting start to a birthday that I can remember.

That, and whatever kinda animal cashmere comes from, better don't let Angel get near one.

****

Strange, I don't quite feel like myself right now.  And it's not the whiskey--I'm only on my first glass.  Which I ordered three seconds after we sat down because, seriously, I think alcohol may be the only antidote to whatever's got me already feeling completely drunk.

Spike's sitting across from me, still chuckling to himself as he reads the menu.  I don't know if I've ever seen him this pleased to be in a restaurant before. He glances up while I'm looking at him and gives me a little smirk, and I can't help but smile back.

He nods at my menu, which I haven't touched since I got my hands on the whiskey.  "What do you think, Peaches?  Want me to pick something out for you?"

I nod.  Pick something out for me.  I'll eat anything.  Just keep looking at me like that.

He laughs and gives me a look that says "whatever, poofter."  I don't care. I have half a glass of Ireland's finest coursing through my veins, and at least I'm beginning to get feeling back in my lips.

The waiter comes then, and Spike orders for both of us.  Then the waiter asks him whether his friend wants another drink, and Spike smiles and says yes, and the waiter laughs a little, and he goes off to do whatever waiters do, and I swear I have no idea what's happening to me because suddenly the only thing I can think about is how much I want to grab the waiter and tear his head off.

Yes, that's right.  Homicidal impulses, brought on by--what?  What the hell was that?

The waiter was flirting with Spike.  I think Spike was flirting back.  What alternate universe did that cab driver transport us into?  I want to go back where we came from, _now._

Okay, I'm going to close my eyes, and when I open them, I will be calm, collected, and over whatever insane moment this is I'm having. One...two...three...

When I open my eyes, Spike is staring at me with what I hope is curiosity, rather than mockery.  I clear my throat, louder than I mean to, and among the several things clamoring in my head to be said, I choose this:

"So, what did you order for us?"

I don't know if I can explain what goes on in Spike's eyes at that moment. There's a flicker of surprise, just for an instant.  Replaced by awareness, a darkening of the blue, a change in the sharpness of his focus on me.  He blinks slowly...once, twice...then leans across the table; and when he speaks his voice is soft, like a curtain being drawn around us.

"Well, pet, for me there's steak, and for you there's scallops in white wine sauce.  I thought that's something you'd like."  Under the table, his fingers find my knees and run over them lightly, sexy and reassuring at the same time.

Maybe it's the touch that does it, that brings me back to reality.  Or maybe the whiskey kicks in, or the narcotic effect of the cab ride wears off, I don't know. All I can say is, when I look up again things are back to moving at normal speed, and by the time the waiter puts a plate of scallops in front of me I'm almost reconciled to not killing him.

I did say almost.  Why do you ask?

****

 _That_ was interesting.  I wonder if the waiter knows how close he came to getting his head ripped off.  'Cause no shit, that was as near to an Angelus moment as I've seen since the last time my Sire's soul took a vacation.

And no, I was not flirting with the poofter waiter.  That was strictly a one-sided deal.  What is it with some humans and their perverted attraction to vampires? Not that I'm one to talk; perverted attraction to a vampire's what got me here in the first place, but still.  Humans interest me for fighting and feeding, period. And since I'm living with Angel I'm not supposed to do either, so the least they can do is sod off and quit lookin' at me like that.

But whatever; Angel seems to be recovered, so I'm not complaining.  He's sittin' there nursing his third whiskey and looking reasonably normal, for him, while I work on dessert--berries in a kinda thick cream.  He's still being unnaturally quiet, though.  Usually during meals like this I have to listen to all kinds of commentary about my table manners, or at least some poofter romantic crap. Tonight there's none of that; the only communicating Angel's doing is strictly nonverbal.  Which, as long as he's not brooding, is okay with me.

Anyway, I'm enjoyin' the hell out of myself right now.  I've got my chair pulled 'round next to Angel's, and with my free hand I'm stroking his thigh--up the inside, down the outside, nice and slow, with just a bit of pressure.  Once in a while I vary it and linger my hand on the inside stroke, squeezing lightly and brushing against the hard on he's had since the cab ride.  Then he turns his eyes to me, and gives me a look that stops me in mid-swallow and sends a thrill from my scalp right down to the soles of my feet.

And Angel's got his big hand on the back of my neck, a gesture that's tender and possessive at the same time.  It's the unspoken equivalent of him tellin' me I belong to him--which is usually right before I do something to remind him that he may be my Sire, but I can bring him to his knees just as well as he can bring me to mine.

And part of me's thinking I should be draggin' him outside right now for a quick shag in the bushes, 'cause what says "happy birthday to me" like a little public indecency?  But the other part of me's not in a hurry, and just wants to enjoy this for a little longer--this meal where I actually recognize the food, and Angel's fingers slipping gently under the neck of my shirt, even this restaurant, with its windows open to the terrace and the night air waftin' in, and...and...

That's it.  Hangin' out with Angel is definitely turning me into a poof.

Time for some corrective action.

****

It's not just the clothes.  There's something different about Spike tonight.

For one thing, he's in an amazingly good mood, considering where we are.  By any normal standard of Spike behavior, by now he should be demanding to be taken home, trying to lure me into the valet booth for a quickie, or at least threatening the waiter.

Oh, right.  That was _me_ threatening the waiter.

The Spike who's sitting next to me now is one I don't see very often outside our apartment.  Calm, seemingly unconcerned at being surrounded by humans, and apparently more amused than offended by the strange looks I'm giving him. When he catches me staring he just smirks at me and licks another berry off his spoon.

When he goes to get matches from the bar, he doesn't seem to notice the eyes that follow him.  He's oblivious to the wave of human lust that rolls toward him from certain corners of the room, that to me is the sensory equivalent of a car alarm going off.  How can I blame anyone for staring at him?  He's beautiful--lithe and graceful, unselfconscious in his black leather and pale white skin, like some kind of punk angel.  It's all I can do to sit still here, to not tear after him and tackle him into the coat closet.  Which I'm sure he wouldn't mind, but I'd hate to get banned from a restaurant he actually likes.

And part of me just wants to prolong this.  Even if he's only tolerating this restaurant and these humans for my benefit, he's doing it with such grace that I'm reluctant to let it go.  All the more because I know the minute I give him his present will be the last peaceful one I enjoy for a while.

But hell, it's his birthday, and I'm not used to peace anyway.

I'm so engrossed in thinking about it I don't realize he's come back until he's right behind me, until his hand is on my chest and his lips graze my neck and I feel rather than hear him say, "Let's go."

****

I'm about dragging Angel out of the restaurant.  Not that he's not willing; he's just trying to maintain an appearance of decorum.  I don't give a shit about decorum, so I stop for a second and kiss him, hard, until he groans and his hands find my waist and squeeze.  Then it's back to the dragging, 'cause romance is nice and all, but enough's enough and I'm ready for somebody to be naked.

As soon as we're outside, though, he stops.  One minute I'm pulling my willing Sire behind me, the next he's slipped my grasp and he's over talking to the stupid valet.  "Oi, wanker!" I call after him, "We don't need a damn valet to flag down a bloody cab for us, you know.  They have 'em right here on the street and everything!"

He's not listening.  God, I hate it when he ignores me.  I start toward him with a vague plan of grabbing his ass and shoving his enormous bulk into the next cab I see.  That's when he does the thing I really hate:  He bloody pulls rank on me, the fucker.  He turns to me and gives me this look, this "your-Sire-commands-you" look.  And I can't help it, I obey.  I stop and stand there like an idiot waiting for him to finish whatever stupid sodding business he has with the valet.

Except now I'm pissed.  I can't believe he just did that.  He _knows_ how much I hate that look.  'Cause even if he is my Sire, what we're doing right now has nothing to do with bein' vampires, so why the fuck should it matter?  But it does. Or at least, I don't get to choose when it does--that's his power.  The least he could do is not use it for trivial shit like makin' me leave him alone while he talks to the goddamn valet.

I'm still standing there when another bastard valet pulls up in front of me. And even though I'm pissed, I can't help admiring the sweet car he's brought: Mustang convertible, about a '66 by the look of it, red, and so shiny she's like new.  And I start doing a little mental calculation:  Time needed to hotwire the car, minus how long it would take for Angel to notice me doin' it, multiplied by the amount of shit I'd get from him if I actually stole it, divided by the number of hours of pleasure I'd have before Angel sent my ass packing.  And I'm so engrossed in this little debate that I don't notice Angel's come back until he's right behind me, and then I ignore him 'cause I'm still annoyed.

He puts his arms around me anyway, and presses something into my hands. It's Cordelia's envelope.  "Happy Birthday, Will," he says.

I look down at the envelope.  A note?  A card?  Some kind of message to explain why I should forgive him for treating me like a fledge on my goddamn one-hundred-and-fortieth birthday?  I tear open the flap and slip my fingers inside.  Keys.  Keys?  At first I don't understand.  I turn to Angel to ask him what the hell, but he's smiling like a fool and then I get it:

The Mustang.

It's for me.

If any of the valets at that restaurant never saw two blokes necking on the hood of a car before, they have now.

And yeah, I guess I forgive him.  Maybe.

****

In my own defense, let me just point out that Spike really isn't a bad driver. Reckless, yes.  A habitual speeder who doesn't know the meaning of the term "turn signal," okay.  Easily distracted, inattentive, and prone to sudden swerving...

All right, okay, so maybe giving Spike this car might _technically_ be construed as a violation of my duty to protect the innocent, but--well, look at him. He's having such a good time.

"YEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!  Eat my dust, ya tutu-wearing nancyboy!  Let's see you pass me now!"

Who am I kidding?  I'm going to burn in hell for this.  But I don't care, because he loves the car.  As evidenced by the look of pure joy on his face as we tear down the busy streets, flying past other cars and through red lights, the wind and the roar of the engine so loud we have to shout to be heard.  When he glances over at me, his eyes glowing with excitement and his hair fluttering in the wind, he looks like a little kid.  A little kid doing 60 on a major street in the middle of Saturday night traffic.

"Angel," he shouts, "this is fuckin' amazing!  How did you--?"

"Wesley and Gunn.  They dropped it off at the restaurant for me.  I wanted to surprise you."

"I'm bloody surprised, all right."

"I'm glad.  Watch out for that truck!"

"I see it!"  He swerves smoothly and floors it again.  "Don't be so jumpy, ya nonce!  I know how to drive!"

I'd forgotten how much I love seeing him just enjoy something.  He keeps up a front of cool mockery toward so many things, but when it comes to what he loves his enthusiasm won't be contained.  He laughs with pleasure as he takes a long, wide curve, grins as he floors it on the straightaway, shouts with delight as the gears shift smoothly under his hand.  I'm grinning myself just from watching him, and not even the sense of mortal danger that comes from being his passenger can diminish my enjoyment.

And I'm suddenly overwhelmed by how much I want him.  Not just in general, but now--to kiss that laughing mouth, to spread my fingers over those leather-covered thighs, to see those sparkling eyes fall shut in surrender.  I lick my lips and I swear I can taste his blood.  The sensation is so real it makes me dizzy, and I have to close my eyes to stop from slipping into gameface.

"Oi!  What are you, brooding again?"  He's watching me from the drivers' seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on his leg.  I promised myself that for his birthday I'd let him do what he wants, to drive all night if that's what he feels like, and I meant it, I still mean it, but--

"Spike, I..."

I don't get to finish that sentence, because at that moment we round a corner and Spike slams on the brakes to avoid plowing into a huge mob that's gathered, blocking the street fifty yards ahead.

"What the bleedin' hell--?" he starts, but the words are arrested by the sight of the strange crowd before us.

And at first I think it's some kind of carnival, or a renaissance fair, because half the people seem to be in costume--baggy pants, tunic shirts, sandals, the kind of stuff farmers used to wear when I was young.  A girl runs by with yards of tiedye swirling around her ankles and what seems to be a live weasel draped around her neck, so I suppose it could also be a circus.

Then they lift the burning effigy, and I realize it's a protest.

****

A fuck doll?  Why would a crowd of enraged hippies be burnin' a fuck doll?

At least, it looks like a fuck doll.  'Course it also looks a bit like Slutty, now that I think about it.  I'm about to ask Angel his opinion when someone holds up a sign tellin' us it's some bint called Britney something.  And I have to say, whoever Britney is, she's got me impressed--I don't think I ever drew a mob this big, even during my years as the Right Hand Childe of the Scourge of Europe.

When we first pulled up it looked like things were going peacefully, but when the chippie on the stick starts burning there's a sort of ugly rumble through the crowd.  Someone pokes a sign into the flames and pulls it out on fire, and pretty soon there are flaming signs all over the place.  And I'm standin' on my seat to get a better view, 'cause if there's one thing I love it's a good riot, and this one has all the hallmarks of somethin' that's about to go bad fast.

The crowd's chanting, but I can't make out what they're saying over all the other noise.  Something about American global cultural genocide or some such bollocks.  The important thing is, there are riot police starting to move in on the far side of the crowd.  From where I'm standing I can just make out the tops of their shields over the heads of the hippies and the forest of burning sticks.  In about half a minute those cops are going to start movin' in, and all hell's gonna break loose.

And half of me's ready to hurl myself out of this car and into the mob, 'cause how can I pass up a chance at this kind of mayhem?  It's not like I started it, right?  Besides, I've been meaning to get some police tape to tie up Angel with, and there's sure to be a lot of that around when the smoke clears.

I don't have long to decide, though, because Angel's standing up now too, and I know he sees the riot police just like I do.  And don't think he's not reading my mind, either.  He knows me too well not to know I'm about five seconds away from diving into the middle of the melee.  Which is exactly what this crowd has turned into, because the riot police just started moving.  And there are bottles flying, and flamin' sticks gettin' brought down on people's heads, and screaming, and the whole mob is gettin' pushed back toward us, and old Britney goes down in a huge shower of sparks.  It's the best bloody hippie riot I've ever seen.

And I turn to Angel, who's still standing next to me, staring at the crowd with a look of horror.  And yeah, I could jump in now and he'd be fine--he'd take himself home, and tomorrow he'd swab the blood off my wounds and never say a word about it, 'cause it's my birthday and he thinks he has to let me do what I want.  And I suppose he does, at that.

He looks at me then, and what I see in his eyes decides the question for me.

"Come on, Peaches," I say, "let's go home."

****

Driving home, Spike is quiet.  If you didn't know him, you might think 'relaxed.' Because I know him, I'm going to go with 'thoughtful.'  If I could bring myself to use the word, I might even suggest 'brooding.'  Every so often he looks over at me, a quick sideways glance.  Like he's taking the measure of something. Thinking.

And when we get home, I'm not surprised by how fast he's out of the car and inside.  Or how he strides across the lobby ahead of me, stripping off his shirt as he goes, and at the foot of the stairs stops and turns to watch me.  And when I reach him, and he grabs me and pins me against the pillar, catching my face in his hands and my mouth with his mouth, I know that bruising, angry, insistent, searching kiss.

When he finally releases me, I see the command in his eyes before he says it.

"The ballroom.  Go.  Wait for me."

It's not a request.  He's not asking.

So I go.

****

I let him wait a little.  Not too much, maybe ten minutes.  Enough.

When I walk into the ballroom, Angel's at the window.  Standing there with his back to me, looking out at the city, all dark and bright lights spreading out in all directions, like spokes in a giant bloody wheel.  He doesn't move when I enter, doesn't turn around.  But he knows I'm here.  He always knows.  He's just waiting, perfectly still, to see what I'll do.

What I do is stand there for a minute, and look at him.  The back of him, at least, which some would say is his best side.  I have to give it to Angel--he's one handsome broody bastard.  For someone whose main exercise consists of shagging and complaining, not necessarily in that order, he has a helluva nice body--all broad planes and muscular curves, strong and tight and graceful. Ordinarily by now I'd already be across the room, tearing his clothes off or getting mine torn off or some combination of both.  But not tonight--at least, not yet.  Later, maybe.

Angel doesn't know why I celebrate my birthday.  He thinks it's for the presents, and I don't deny it--I do like presents.  Here's something else I like: this room. It's quiet in here, no humans, no noise, not even sounds from the street. And there's him, standin' there so bloody still, like only a vampire can be still.  And even though he knows I'm here, for now he'll pretend.  He'll let me walk toward him across that thick carpet, all slow and stealthy, and he won't turn his head. Because he doesn't know what my birthday means to me, but he knows I want something.  He's just waiting for me to show him what it is.

When I was a fledge, he dominated me.  It wasn't even a question; it's just how it was.  He was my Sire, and everything I learned, all joy and all suffering was at his hands, and in his bed.  But I'm not a fledge anymore, and he knows it. We play the parts still, because they feel right, and give us comfort.  But it's rare he wields power I don't give him.

And I know sometimes he regrets it, the end of the way it was.  Even though he feels guilty for the things he did, and he'd go back to hell before he'd ever be that demon again, there are still things he misses.  Like feeling in control of his own destiny.  Like action without consequences.  Like my obedience.

Yeah, he does miss that.

But I don't regret anything.  Didn't then, don't now.  And part of my job is to help him remember why he doesn't regret it either.  Because that was then, and now, there's this:

He stays perfectly still as I cross the room, quick and silent, until I'm right behind him--my chest barely grazing his back, my groin in tight leather against the hard curve of his ass.  He doesn't move a muscle as I reach my arms around, and undo the buttons of that foofy shirt, and slip it off his shoulders.  He breathes in sharply, once, when I swirl my tongue over the tender skin at the back of his neck.  And when I bite--a hard, human bite on the muscle of his shoulder--he just hisses softly, "Will..."

Have I mentioned how unholy seductive Angel is in these moments?  It's nearly enough to make me abandon my self-control--but not quite.  I grasp his hips in my hands and pull him tight against me, brush my mouth against his ear and say, in a voice that's half whisper, half growl, _"Be still."_

And he tries, because Angel in this mood is nothing if not obedient.  He bites his lip to keep from groaning as I slide my hands up his body, tracing the hard lines of his sides, his stomach, his chest.  He shudders when I cover his throat with wet, open-mouthed kisses, and he bends his head to expose more of his skin to my tongue.  He's so good, and so restrained; but he can't keep it in forever.  And when I slip my hands under the waist of his trousers and stroke the hard, aching length of him, it's too much even for his iron control. His body goes rigid, he throws his head back against my shoulder, and gasps out, "ohgod, Will, please..."

That sound--it's like someone struck a match on my spine.  It shoots through me, settin' every nerve on fire.  I couldn't stop myself if I wanted to--and I don't want to.  My arms tighten around his waist and I bury my face in his shoulder and I bite, and I drink.

I don't take much.  I stop when my body stops shaking, and I feel his knees start to give.  Holding him by the waist so he doesn't fall, I pull my fangs from his throat and lick away the last rivulet of blood.  And he turns his head toward me and looks at me with those soul-having brown googly eyes of his, and I can't help it, I have to kiss him.  I press my open mouth to his and let his tongue steal the last taste of his blood from mine.

And gods, it feels so good to kiss him, I almost don't want to stop.  Let him deal me these ungodly delicious kisses, and tangle his fingers in my hair, and seduce me into forgetting why I'm here, and what I wanted.  Let him pull me to the floor and press me down and take me like the night he made me.

But it's not my Death Day, and this is not about the night he made me.  So I pull away from his kiss, and close my eyes, and press my lips against the damp skin of his neck.  And I whisper, "Precious...put your hands against the window."

And he does.  He steps forward and raises his hands and presses his palms against the glass, leaning forward slightly to give them his weight.  And _that_ is a beautiful sight:  my Sire, stripped to the waist and gleaming pale, with the whole damn night sky and city as the background.  And I don't know about him, but I'm through playing.  'Cause Angel, obedient and as good as bound, is a sight to about drive me mad with wanting him.  So:

I step forward and wind my arms around him and slide my tongue around his ear, all the while making short work of those foofy trousers.  They're down and he's naked before he knows what happened.  I pull out the lube I picked up on the way in here, which turns out to be--white chocolate-scented massage cream.  Good christ, but Angel's a poof!  But no matter; worry about aesthetics is Angel's gig.  Mine's more basic.  I squeeze the cream into my hand and slide two fingers between his beautiful cheeks, running them up and down over the tender skin, until he groans and squirms against me.  With one arm around his waist to steady him, I gently push one finger inside, then two, pull out, and push in again deeper.  And Angel's writhing in my grasp now, his head thrown back, gasping for air to make those inarticulate sounds that he always makes when we shag.  And I've got a perfect rhythm going, three fingers now, stroking in and out just the way he likes it.  And he's groaning in time to the motion of my hand, and I'm so good at this I bet I could even make him come this way.

But this is not how I plan to get Angel off tonight.  For that--well, like I said, my method's basic.  He hisses as I withdraw my fingers, whether from regret or anticipation I'm not sure.  I quickly undo my trousers, peel back the leather to free my straining cock.  I give myself a quick two-stroke with the white-chocolate nancyboy lube, position myself between my Sire's perfect white cheeks, wrap my fingers around his hips for leverage, and drive into him with one quick, hard thrust.

And I've got stars in front of my eyes, he feels so fucking good.  I don't even want to move for a second, probably shouldn't, if I want this to last at all.  And Angel's making those sounds, that stream of words that's like "ohgodohfuckohWillohgodfuckmefuckmehard"--and how can I refuse begging like that?  So I take a deep breath and commence fucking--hard, like he asked for, and fast and furious, the way I like it.  And I'm making noise now, too, and my hand is reaching down to stroke his beautiful, aching cock, and he's crying out for more--of me, of this.  And it's good, it's so good, it's like blood, and death, and immortality--

Like my birthday.

Angel doesn't understand why I celebrate my birthday.  And for a long time, I didn't either.

I used to think time didn't matter, that being immortal meant that you stayed the same while everything changed around you.  I used to think demons didn't change.  I know different, now.

I s'pose I celebrate my birthday to remind myself of that--that time doesn't stand still, that everything has to change.  Even vampires, even us.  Because being immortal's not the same as being dead.

And in a way, I think it's good for the brooding poof, too, even if he doesn't know why.  Even if it's just that buying me fantastic and slightly insane gifts gives him somethin' to think about that's not the past and how much shit he dealt everyone back then.  Or for that matter, the future--because as much as we don't know what's ahead, we know this:  We'll be there, and everything and everyone else we love today will be gone.  And _that's_ what you call something to brood on.

And how much of the above do I say to Angel?  Not much.  And what I do say comes out something like:

"Ohgodyes...Angel...fuck...Sire...you. feel. so. fucking. good!"  Because now I've found my rhythm and I'm rocking into him, one arm wrapped tight around his chest, while with the other hand I keep up that same steady stroke, and he's past crying out my name and into just crying out, and then a tremor goes through him and his muscles go rigid and he's coming into my hand and he shouts my name--my new name, my chosen name-- _"Spike!"_   And the tightness that's been building in me gives way and I'm coming, and crying, and begging, and thrusting into him so hard I wonder what he'll feel like tomorrow.

No, I know what he'll feel like tomorrow.  Like it was worth it.  Because brooding or not, Angel has his priorities.  He knows what's important.  Like birthdays, and sex, and his pet humans, and aesthetics, and, god help the people of Los Angeles, vintage Mustangs.

And we lay there on that thick carpet in that perfect quiet room for a long time before either of us can get up the energy to speak.  It's Angel who breaks the silence first.  He says, "Spike?"

"Yeah?"  I barely lift my head from where it's layin' on his chest.

"Were you flirting with that waiter?"

"What?  What the fuck, you trotting poof?  What do I want with a bloody human?"

No, he's laughing.  This is Angel's idea of a funny joke about our evening. I nip him hard on the chest to remind him that as the Right Hand Childe of the Former Scourge of Europe, I am not to be mocked.  Which makes him laugh harder because--well, maybe he just didn't get the full meaning of the gesture. But I'm too tired to clarify, so I'll let it go.

And as we're drifting off to sleep, naked and in a public room where we will surely be found by one of Angel's pet humans in the morning--preferably Gunn, if I have any choice about it--the last thing I hear is Angel's voice, low and far away:

"Happy Birthday, Spike."  
 

~Fin~


End file.
